


waylaid

by flowerkook



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Finding your home, Fluff, Home, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, just overall cute stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26638522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerkook/pseuds/flowerkook
Summary: You're not sure why the Mandalorian keeps visiting you.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 200





	waylaid

When he steps through the doorway of the cantina, nearly all the light from the mid-afternoon sun is obstructed, his hulking form bringing even the most rowdy of smugglers to a halt. The conversation dims noticeably as the patrons pause to take in the sight of the beskar clad man. You carry on polishing the glasses behind the bar as if his appearance is a regular occurrence. It is, but none of your customers know this.

On your waystation of a planet, bounty hunters stop for a drink, find a job if they can, and disappear forever. There isn’t anything on this planet, nor in this system to bring them back to your corner of the Outer Rim. Save for one silent man covered in steel who inexplicably reappears every few dozen rotations.

The first time he stopped on your planet, the commotion in the cantina had dropped to a murmur as he entered, much like it had today. The Cerean you had just placed an ale in front of squeaked into his drink. The Mandalorian had walked up to the bar and taken a seat next to him. You offered him an ale, but he said nothing, instead dropping a tracking beacon in front of the Cerean. You took that as your cue to step to the other side of the bar and leave them to their business. Your back turned to him, you heard but one remark from the man: “I can bring you in hot, or I can bring you in cold.”

That phrase alone was enough for you to know to keep your back to him while he slapped a pair of durasteel cuffs on the Cerean and dragged him out of the cantina. You caught the shadow of his retreating figure from the corner of your eye and when you turned back to the bar counter top where he had sat just moments ago, you were met with a small stack of credits.

You saw nothing of him for nearly one hundred rotations, then he arrived just as suddenly as he had the first time— all quiet stature and hulking presence. This time though, a small floating pod trailed his figure, and he spoke his first words to you. “Do you have food? Anything with bones?” The request was accompanied by a clatter of credits on the bar top. You walked back to the kitchen to relay the order and stood there for a moment contemplating what you should do.

Little scared you, it was the nature of your occupation. Your cantina had seen a plethora of unsavory patrons and part of your job was learning how to deal with them. You knew to stay as far from a Mandalorian as you could, should you ever come into contact with one, but now that this one had appeared a second time, your curiosity overwhelmed any fear you had. 

While the food was being prepared, you stepped back up to the counter, in front of where he sat. The metal pod hovered beside him. “Would you like anything to drink?” you asked, looking into the slit on his helmet where you assumed his eyes were.

“No.” The word sounded metallic coming from him, a slight reverb catching the syllable as it passed through his armor. From that remark alone your heart lurched, alerting you that you were in danger, though nothing from the Mandalorian seemed to indicate that he would harm you. Nonetheless you stepped back to serve some other patrons to calm your heart at the very least.

When the food was ready, you placed a bowl of thick stew in front of him and he wordlessly picked up the dish and walked out of the cantina, the hovering pod floating close behind him. You suppressed the urge to call after him and tell him this was a dine-in cantina, noting that the credits on the bar top more than paid for the bowl he just took anyway.

The third time he appeared, the surprise of his presence had worn off. You hadn’t been expecting him, as it had been nearly a full cycle around your system’s star since his last arrival. But in the back of your mind you had assumed he’d return sooner or later as your only repeat customer.

On this occasion, he was again accompanied by the floating pod, but the contraption was open and a little green face peeked out at you from the metal cover as the Mandalorian took a seat at the bar for the third time. A thought had flashed through your mind at that moment.  _ Did he look like that too, underneath the armor? Green and wrinkly? _

Your thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of something onto the bar top, pulling your eyes away from the tiny green creature. Placed in front of you was yet another stack of credits alongside the very dish the Mandalorian had taken from the Cantina a year earlier. You couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face. How strange not only for him to return to your wasteland of a planet, but to bring this practically worthless bowl of yours back.

“Something with bones?” you asked, remembering his previous request. He was taken aback. You could tell by the way he paused and tilted his head, even if you couldn’t see the expression on his face. He gave the tiniest of nods and you headed to the kitchen to relay the order, though you didn’t stay there long, eager to learn more about the man in the armor.

“What brings you back here.”

“I’m a bounty hunter.” The short answer was clipped by the vocoder in his helmet.

“I know. But you’re the first bounty hunter I’ve seen twice.”

He hesitated, unsure if he should tell you. He seemed to make a calculation before ultimately deciding in favor of divulging. “I’m… protecting a bounty.”

Your eyebrows rose as it fell into place and your gaze dropped to the child who was distracted by the lights in the cantina, his eyes darting around as far as the crib would allow him to see.

“Do you think it’s wise to protect a bounty by bringing him to a cantina frequented by bounty hunters?”

The face of his helmet was expressionless as always but you imagined his visage underneath it held the same unimpressed appearance to match.

“Every bounty hunter here is an amateur or incompetent. No one else is desperate enough to take jobs in this part of the Outer Rim. There’s no way any of them have his puck.” His tone was harsher than he intended and he leaned back as if to soften the blow of his remark. You paid it no mind, you knew the reality of what your home was and you had long since accepted that fact.

“Then what kind of bounty hunter does that make you, Mandalorian, if this is your third time here?” Your tone was teasing, but you didn’t give him a chance to answer, hightailing it to the kitchen and returning immediately with his bowl of stew.

You had picked up enough knowledge about his creed through the whispers of your patrons to know that he did not take off his helmet in front of others, so it didn’t surprise you that the stew was for the creature that accompanied him. But the image of the steel covered Mandalorian, his helmet set permanently in an unfeeling stare, gently ladling liquid into the tiny child’s mouth, was one you never imagined you’d see. It was an unnaturally gentle action for a man whose body was entirely made up of cold metal and hard edges.

You didn’t mean to stand there and stare at him while the child guzzled down the stew, but the happy gurgles of the little green creature and the tender care taken by the Mandalorian was a picture so perfect you couldn’t look away. When the little one cleared out the bowl, you felt the Mandalorian’s staring at you, though his helmet was still angled down towards the child. There was no way you could be sure, but you  _ knew _ that his eyes were trained on you behind the darkened visor. Suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that you had been staring at him, you cleared your throat and asked him a question.

“Is he your son?” It wasn’t an unreasonable question. You knew the Mandalorians placed a great deal of importance on family.

He responded without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Are you green like him, then?” The question was blurted out and your eyes widened as you realized what you had just asked. Before you could overcome your mortification and apologize, a sharp laugh came from his helmet. It was metallic as it was processed by his helmet, but there was still warmth to the sound.

“He’s a foundling.”

You nodded in understanding and grabbed the empty bowl from the counter, retreating back to the kitchen before you could embarrass yourself any further. When you returned to the bar, he was still sitting there. You had half expected him to be gone and leave you looking forward to his next visit.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” you asked.

“Can I ask you something?” The question was posed cautiously. It was strange to hear such a formidable man sounding so timid. When you nodded in affirmation, he continued. “Do you like living here?”

You considered the question for a moment, though you already knew your answer.

“Not particularly.” You shrugged at him. “It’s an existence. There isn’t much to do besides work and drink. Never see the same face twice so it keeps things interesting. Though I suppose you’re the exception.” 

“Why don’t you ever leave?” he asked.

“Where would I go?” That brought him to silence. You didn’t quite know why you offered him so much information about how you felt. Part of you thought that he would never return again, so there were virtually no consequences to divulging so much. The other part of you thought that if he was the only one who kept coming back, then perhaps he was someone worth sharing your feelings with.

He left later that day when you were pouring drinks for a Twi’lek with your back turned to him. When you turned back, the only evidence that he had been there was yet another stack of credits on the counter. You spent the weeks until his next visit thinking about how you had made him laugh, even if it did take you embarrassing yourself. The memory brought a warmth to your cheeks every single time.

After that occasion, the Mandalorian had graced you with his presence so many times, you lost count. The visits were just as unpredictable: once you saw him twice within ten rotations and another time he disappeared for sixty-two rotations. You had kept count, though even as the number of days grew higher and higher, something tugging at your gut said he would be back.

Each visit became routine. The moment he stepped through the entrance to the cantina, you turned to the kitchen to ask for a bone broth, so food for the child would be ready sooner rather than later. Then, as time passed, you started placing parcels of meat and bread before him just as he was about to leave. He thanked you each time in a quiet voice and with a clatter of extra credits on the bartop.

Sometimes he’d tell you about the bounties he’d caught. They were like fairy tales to you. Stories of faraway lands and great adventures. He told you of the search for his child’s people, the exotic planets he visited.

Once you had asked, “What’s the coldest planet you’ve been to?”

“Krownest,” he had said, without a moment of hesitation.

“How about the smelliest?” you had followed.

He had tilted his head at you, surprised by the question. The only answer you got was a warm laugh.

Then sometimes he’d come in with a particular walk. You didn’t know when you started to be able to identify it, but you knew what it meant. He didn’t want questions that day. He’d let the child eat in loud slurps and sit silently. And then he’d be gone. The only constant was the credits left on your bar. Always more than he owed you.

You hadn’t intended to, but you came to miss the metal man and his peculiar son between each visit they paid you. On this occasion, there was little you could do to tamp the flutter in your chest that arose at his presence.

His walk to the bar was uneven and labored.

When he sat down, a pained grunt escaped his mouth. Worry flashed across your face, but you knew better than to ask him what was wrong. You knew that by now he was comfortable enough with you that he’d offer the information when he was ready, no prompting necessary.

The floating pram was open and the child clambered onto the countertop, gurgling happily while his father suffered quietly beside him. The Mandalorian placed an elbow onto the wooden surface, dropping his head into a leather gloved hand and watching as the little green creature toddled back and forth, reaching grabby hands up at you.

You leaned down a little so you were level with the child. “You want me to pick you up?” you asked sweetly. Whether or not the child understood was unclear, but he latched his hands onto your shoulders while you were within reaching distance and you took that as a yes.

You hoisted the child into your arms and he babbled at you. You imagined he was telling you about his father’s latest adventure, though you couldn’t understand a single sound that left his mouth.

The Mandalorian watched you silently, following you with his eyes as you walked towards the kitchen with the child still in your arms. There was a feeling that settled in his chest, bright and warm. It was a louder version of what he felt the first time he called the child his son. He had to pull himself from the thoughts that threatened to burst forward, feelings he’d only ever associated with his clan.

He took the moment alone to take stock of himself. He did it methodically, limb by limb. There was a slight pain in his left wrist, not enough to be broken. Both his knees were sore, but that was nothing new. He’d become accustomed to it. He was bleeding from a cut somewhere on his forehead, it stung when he moved, but it was not as bad as it could be.

He was about to feel for wounds on his torso but then you were walking back from the kitchen, bowl in one hand, the child on the opposite hip. The image knocked the breath out of him. It was worse than when he got kicked into the dirt by a Bothan just hours ago. The Bothan in question was securely frozen in carbonite in his ship, but his ribs ached with the memory, and they ached worse when you stood directly in front of him.

You set the child back down and let him slurp his broth, fondly stroking his ear when he took breaks. The Mandalorian could only watch, struggling between letting himself be consumed by these feelings and stating the real reason for his visit. He’d let himself bask in your presence until the child’s finished his food, he compromised to himself.

The little thing ate far too quickly and the Mandalorian lamented the empty bowl. He sighed heavily, pulling your attention from the child. You looked at him, somehow meeting his eyes even through his visor.

“I need a favor,” he said.

“What can I do for you?” you asked. The child gurgled again and when you looked down, his arms were raised. You obliged with a smile, slinging him onto your hip.

The image made getting any words out of his mouth so much harder. “I have to do something that might be dangerous. It’s supposed to take a week.” He paused. You nodded, encouraging him to continue. Then the child was grabbing at your hair and you were distracted, trying to detangle the strands from his fingers. 

“Could you watch the child for me?”

You froze. Your heart thumped in earnest, evidently processing the question much faster than your brain had. You turned your head back to him.

“I don’t trust anyone else,” he said. He didn’t have to. You knew he’d never willingly let the child out of his sight.

The weight of his request was still passing through the cogs of your mind when you nodded yes to him.

He left soon after, but this time the little green creature sat alongside credits on the counter.

The child was easy enough to take care of. He was a silent companion at work, happy to make quiet gurgling noises behind the bar and eat anything you put in front of him. Each time you looked at him there was that familiar feeling that the Mandalorian would return to your planet, only amplified by a thousand.

He graced you with his presence in exactly a week, as promised. It was the first time you knew when to expect him and there was a unique thrill to the moment he stepped through the door this time. For the first time, the promise that he’d return was one that was spoken aloud, not just a silent assumption on your part.

The Mandalorian looked worse for wear as he walked towards his usual seat at the bar. There were a few new scrapes against his chestplate. They were seared in by heat, like he’d been hit by a blaster. His left pauldron had a dent in it that you could see from across the cantina, it reflected the light all wrong.

Even his walk was slower, more stunted. He normally moved like his armor was a second skin, but as he trudged to the bar, it seemed that the full weight of his beskar was hanging on him. The child, sitting in your arms, followed his father’s gait with wide eyes.

You winced sympathetically as he sat down. The child immediately clambered out of your arms and onto the countertop, all but barreling into his father’s chestplate. Despite the obvious pain he seemed to be in, the Mandalorian sighed at the creature with a gentleness that couldn’t be stripped by his vocoder.

“Did he cause you any trouble?” he asked. You winced again at the evident pain in his voice. A part of you wanted to ask if he was okay, if he needed a healer, if you could do anything to help, but you knew that he’d appreciate you ignoring that instinct.

“No trouble at all,” you said. The child was attempting to climb his armor, finding footholds at the edge of his chestplate and little green hands grabbing at the smooth curve of the helmet. The Mandalorian sat perfectly still, allowing the child to do as he pleased. You would have laughed at the sight had your stomach not been churning with worry. But the fond smile that formed on your face was impossible to hold back when the child seated himself atop his father’s helmet. “He’s got the appetite of Dewback, though.”

“That he does. I have enough to cover the cost of the food and labor,” he said, dumping a hefty bag of credits onto the counter. Your eyes widen at the pile. He was always generous but you had never seen this many credits at once in your entire life. 

You managed to stutter out a quiet “Thank you,” and he responded with a small nod, careful not to jostle the child on his head.

“I have to leave soon.” His voice sounded tired. You had half a mind to tell him to stay, to rest for a while.

“Let me get you some parcels of food,” you said instead. You left for the kitchen while the child started to climb back down to the counter.

While you were away, the Mandalorian watched his foundling stumble back and forth along the bartop, entirely comfortable in his surroundings. Of all the places they had been, the child had only seen this cantina and the inside of the Razor Crest more than once.

As the search for the child’s people went on, he couldn’t explain why he kept coming back here. There were hundreds if not thousands of sparsely populated planets with watering holes and fuel stops and any number of supplies.

Then you walked out of the kitchen and carefully placed some wrapped food on the counter in front of him. The child lunged into your arms, but you were ready, catching him easily. And he was struck by the thought that he doesn’t really want to leave. You once told him you stayed because you had nowhere else to go. The entire galaxy was open to him and yet he found himself wanting to stick around at this waystation.

He collected the food in his arms and stood up with a pained grunt, scooping the child out of your arms and into the crook of his elbow. “I’ll come back soon,” he said, before he could talk himself out of uttering the assurance. He left without another word.

The Mandalorian was back in eight days, accompanied by a stack of credits and the little green child. And the unspoken promise that you’d see him more often.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi at rebelhan on tumblr!


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